Thin Skinned
by amaretto and coke
Summary: Follows "Ballad of Fallen Angels". While Spike heals, Jet and Faye actually get along and become productive. Oh, my. Jet/Spike. Yaoi, just so you know.


I felt my world shatter. Literally, as my body flew through a plate glass window. The bullet hole through my shoulder burned with gnawing pain as I hurtled towards the street. 

_Damn it, Julia, if only you hadn't lied to him…_

If only I had met her four months sooner. If only we had run away. If only Vicious had been a no-name flunky instead of my best friend and superior. If only…if only…my life was beginning to sound like a huge list of regrets.

My life? What was left? The saddest moments flashed before my eyes mere seconds before my body made contact with the ground. Far above, the remains of the window were obliterated in a plume of orange and yellow. And somehow I knew that it wouldn't be enough to kill him. No, the only way he would die would be by my hand. It's funny how I knew that. And he felt the same.

The sound of fifteen bones breaking in unison deafened me, and I remembered the woman who had helped me cheat Death before. But I didn't want to see Julia to find me here, to see me this weak and helpless again. She had rescued me from dying once before, only to plunge me into a living hell.

I wanted Jet. I knew that he had followed me. Damn him, where was he? Faye was here, of all people – where was Jet?

I smelled the sharp, acrid tang of blood. My own blood, flowing from numerous places. It obscured my vision, filled my mouth and streamed out of my nose. My right eye tried to focus on the girls who had stopped short, screaming at the horrible sight of my mutilated body.

And mercifully, I lost consciousness.

_Jet, where are you?_

She's humming. An old, old song. And she's out of key.

I can't move. The familiar restriction of plaster covers my wretched hide as I look around at the inside of the Bebop. I've never been so glad to be here before.

But damn it, Faye, quit screwing up the song.

Apparently I've spoken out loud, as her face goes from mildly concerned to ice-cold in no time flat. She yells something – I can't hear very well, my eardrums are definitely damaged – and stomps out of the room after giving me a good whack. It distracts me from the overall sensation of pain, but only briefly.

I open my eyes, smelling food. The lights seem dimmer. Has time passed? There's a bowl of soup near me, and some bread. It tantalizes me, but I can't reach it.

Jet's here. I make an eager sound when I see his bulk, and he turns. "Spike, you're awake." He picks me up, propping me in a position to be fed. 

He continues to talk as he spoon feeds me with a tenderness that I didn't know he possessed. "Faye and I were both so worried. By the time I found you, we had no idea how much blood you had lost, and neither one of us had your blood type. It took a couple of favors to get three pints of blood for you, mister. You're a lot of trouble to keep up with, you know that?"

Hopefully he doesn't expect much conversation while he's feeding me. It's…stew. With unidentified chunks of brown meat in it. My brain suggests lamb. How could he afford lamb? I eat it, gratefully. He wipes my mouth and offers me the bread, but I make a negative sounding noise and he sets it back down on the coffee table. 

He looks at me, face etched with worry lines. He looks so…old. It's like he's aged about ten years in the time that he's taken care of me. "Spike," he says softly, as if he was afraid to be overheard. "Spike, what am I going to do with you? You nearly gave me a heart attack when I saw you on that sidewalk. Why can't you be more careful? You've got people who stay up at night worrying about you, you know that?" He strokes my hair as if he were petting Ein. Sharp pain pricks my scalp as he makes contact, but the gentleness of his touch is enough to make me ignore the awful sensation.

He worries about me. Faye would never expose such weakness. Hell…not even Julia would admit that she cared. Jet Black is concerned about me. My heart rate speeds up, but he continues on, oblivious. "Seeing you like that…god, Spike, I thought I was going to cry right there on the street. I didn't even cry when _she_ left me. But this…why does it seem like you want to die?" His voice trails off and he stands after a few minutes of silence to contemplate my form. My eyes are closed. He thinks that I'm asleep, because he clears his throat and sniffles. The shuffling movements tell me that he's looking towards the back of the ship. He must be trying to keep an eye out for Faye, wary that she might be eavesdropping.

"I understand that you want to live life on your own terms, Spiegel. But…if you're going out to get killed, could you at least say goodbye next time?" His voice breaks, and I know that he's holding back tears. I've never hated myself more for not being able to comfort someone. 

I make gurgling noises, and he snaps out of self-pity mode. "Spike?" He unwinds the bandages from the lower part of my face, the ones that are supposed to help my jawbones mend. "Don't talk for long. What do you want?"

"You," I whisper hoarsely.

He frowns and feels my forehead, then takes my pulse. "Feverish…"

The bandages are off at long last and I'm soaking in the tub. My skin is a horrible sight, even though it's been close to a month since I made such a close acquaintance with a slab of concrete. Covered with road rash, contusions, bruises and splotches, it resembles the surface of a topographical map. Lovely. But it'll heal. I'm not concerned. Nor do I think about the multiple broken bones that I've garnered. They've set. And set well. Jet, what would I do without you?

He's not here right now; he's gone grocery shopping. With the excess of money that he and Faye have been bringing home, he promised a real treat for supper. I had the choice of Ganymede Rock Lobster, Peking Duck, or five-curry goat. I went with the lobster, and Jet had left, apologizing for leaving me alone, and promising to return soon.

He's so…gentle, lately. He never yells anymore, even when Faye's being unreasonable. He simply listens, explains himself to her again and walks away. She looks flustered, and embarrassed. Every time. Part of me knows that he gets a big kick out of that. But it's good that they're able to work together, because they've collected twenty bounties since I effectively compacted my body. None of those hoods were big-time, but they caught them easily, _sans_ fuss. The money's been steady ever since, and no one's complaining. What a difference one missing crew member makes.

The smell of stewing oatmeal fills my nostrils as I breathe deeply. God, it's good to be able to breathe in again without feeling my ribcage threaten my lungs. The brown, thick water slides off my skin as I stand. Jet's been making me take oatmeal baths to rehabilitate the top epidermal layer, and forcing herbal remedies down my throat to help out the underlying tissues. I laugh as the drain clogs and grab the plunger.

The garbage can in the kitchen is now the proud owner of a paper sack full of soggy oats as I head back to my room and lie down. Lie down? I couldn't even roll over without assistance a month ago. He's done wonders for me…especially those long back rubs and massages after I cautiously began my training again. At first, he didn't like the idea, thinking that I would strain muscles. But as time passed, and my workout intensified without a hitch, he no longer had any major objections. But those hands on my back…they've made my dreams a little…awkward. Not to mention that it's awfully hard to take a piss in the middle of the night lately.

Boots are clanking in the hall near my door. It opens to reveal…none other than Jet Black himself. He looks pleased to see me moving around so well on my own. "Lunch is cooking. Do you need your back rubbed?"

I never, ever, turn down massages from him. His fingers are moving on my skin, working something slick into it. The aroma is sweet and rich. I have no clue what it is as his hands warm the thick crème and force my skin to absorb it.

"What is that?"

"Cocoa butter. Ever heard of it?"

"Never. Smells good, though."

"It helps heal scars."

I don't care if it's used to peel paint. Jet's hands are on my back and that's all that matters. A familiar, warm feeling begins to manifest itself in my lower regions and I sigh. He stops. "Did I hurt you?"

"Jet…"

"What is it? What do you want?"

"You." I reach for him, feebly. He draws back as our hands touch.

"Spike, you're not well."

"Please," I ask quietly. I struggle with my boxers and he tries to calm me. Unfortunately, he's touching me again.

"We can't do this. Let go." He removes my hands from its shaky clutch on his metal paw. I try to get out of my underwear, but he holds me. Lightly. "Spike, no. Do you want permanent scar tissue?"

"I want you," I insist, rolling over to show him proof.

He looks. He wasn't smiling before, but he's deadly serious now. "Now is not a good time. You're still healing. Doing this could rupture something."

"_I'm_ going to rupture if you don't help me." I sit up, wincing. He's losing patience with my bullheadedness, but he's still calm. "Let me check on the food, and we'll discuss this later."

I place a raw palm on his inner thigh, and his cool resolve shatters. His face tenses and flushes, and I can see his arms trembling. He wants this, I know. And he thinks that somehow he's protecting me in denying himself.

He doesn't know Spike Spiegel.

I place a kiss on each of his closed eyelids, and I feel his breath come hot against my neck. Oh, he wants this. Bad. My hand moves a little to the right, and his breaths instantly become ragged as I stroke his erection through his pants. He's wearing slacks and a dress shirt today, as opposed to that mangled jumper he's usually got on. Jet looks good in casual clothes. Those clothes will look so much better on the floor.

He's got me supported in those big hands, laying me back down as if I was made of glass. His facial expression hasn't changed. It's still very stern. But his eyes gleam with an abnormal intensity. He's been waiting just as long as I have, and we're both too close to be denied.

There was a timid knock at the door. "Jet? I think that whatever you're cooking is ready."

The gleam goes out instantly as he stands. "Thanks, Faye." He hands me my boxers. "Lunch is served."

I have to admit, Jet does good work when he has enough ingredients. Without a variety of food to choose from, his skill is indefinitely limited. I've suffered through creamed pork, fried bread and mayonnaise, and hard-boiled cantaloupe. But when he's not improvising, he can actually cook. 

The three of us are treated to Ganymede Rock Lobster stuffed with mushroom wild rice and onion butter. With a spinach salad on the side. And an interesting, if obviously cheap, chardonnay. Faye seems pleased as she eats, actually complimenting Jet. He's obviously quite proud of himself. I don't have much to say, concerning myself with enjoying lunch. It's been entirely too long since I could eat real food, drink liquor, and expect it to stay down.

The wine's all gone, and so is Faye. Exuberant from a fresh catch and a pocket full of wulongs, and flush with alcohol, she's off to the casinos. I'm exhausted, or drunk. One or the other. 

I'm watching Jet from the yellow loveseat. "Big Shot" is on, but so far it's failed to grab my attention. Not even the announcement of a huge bounty makes me turn my head. Jet's washing dishes and cleaning up. And my libido seems to be returning with a vengeance.

He comes over my way, smoking, and staring at me. His eyes have that gleam in them again as he looks me over.

"Big Shot" is now off.

Jet blows one last cloud of smoke before crushing the cigarette and lifting me, gently, from the couch. He's looking into my eyes and I'm looking into his. 

I'm aroused. He chooses to ignore it, but it's there, bold and in his face. We reach his room and he's laying me down on his bed, turning away to strip himself of his charcoal slacks with impatience. I lie still and watch him. His metal arm shines dully. I never knew that Jet had so many scars on his back. Some of them look pretty ugly.

I wonder if a friend betrayed him as well.

He kisses me, chastely. But I'm having a hard time breathing normally afterward. I can see his heart pounding through the cotton of his open shirt. Oh yes, he wants this. His hands – one cool, one oh so warm – deftly remove my clothing, leaving me bare and vulnerable. Those same hands turn me on my side and close my legs together. He sets my gangly legs on top of his thick, muscular calf, and underneath his thick, muscular thigh. I feel one of the fleshy fingers prodding softly around my anus for several seconds before he slips inside of me with a groan. A modified spoon? You're so creative, Jet.

I smell cocoa butter.

Jet's close to screaming. I do it for him as he increases his speed.

Oh, _god._

He's examining the blisters on my hands. I'm on the verge of falling asleep, but he's fooled into thinking that I _am _asleep. He's telling me about his old partners, his old loves, his old life. He has never been this open. Not even when he's stinking sloppy drunk. I stir as he adjusts my body, and he notices. "You're awake."

I don't answer him; I don't need to. He curls into bed beside me, taking extra care not to crowd me. I reach for his hand, caressing the hair that runs up his veined forearm. My other hand lavishes attention on his bald pate, and the hair that sits in tufts around the back. 

Jet's hair is surprisingly soft.

He's still looking at me. "You're healing really well. You should be better in no time at all."

"And when I wreck myself again, will you be there for me?"

"Always."

I smile.

"With back rubs."

My smile grows bigger.

FIN


End file.
